In the evening Yeshua told the story of the sheep
who separated from the flock and was lost. The shepherd left the
flock and went to find the sheep. He found it in a thorn-bush, freed
it, carried it home on his shoulders, called all the neighbors and
rejoiced.

Well, and?

Shimon said: Yes, but what about the other sheep?
What if meanwhile the wolf came? The shepherd saved one sheep and
abandoned the rest.

I said: The story is nice and comforting, but will
every sheep by rescued at the right time by the right shepherd? Won’t
many sheep be torn apart by the wolf before the shepherd notices
their absence?

Miryam, you are thinking in hours, days, years. We
have an æon before us.

All right, but a dead sheep is a dead sheep and
stays one, or doesn’t it?

There is no dead sheep. There is no death. Only
transformation. No sheep is abandoned.

That would be great, said Yehuda. Unfortunately
though, I have seen many dead sheep and lambs. And they weren’t
the only ones I’ve seen perish, ripped apart by the Roman wolf.
Where is the shepherd, Rabbi?

Listen to another story, perhaps you’ll
understand then. A man had two sons. The elder one stayed with his
father and helped him with the work. The younger asked for his
inheritance and went abroad. There he squandered his inheritance and
became as poor as a beggar, to the point where he scraped his food
from garbage pails. One day he was so far gone that he told himself:
either I die in poverty or I return home. But haven’t I lost
the right to return home? I will be hounded from the farm. It will be
hard. But I must try. Of course I can’t expect father to accept
me as a son, but maybe he can use me as a stable boy. So he started
homeward, his heart full of deep shame and worry. His father saw him
at a distance. Now judgment will fall over me, the son thought, and
he fell to his knees. The father, however, paid no attention to that,
or to the tears of regret, but he lifted him up and embraced him. You
are back again, child. Come, we will celebrate your return. The older
brother saw this and was angry. All this fuss over a tramp! No
embraces for me, who worked so hard for father, no feast, nothing.
The father heard his grumbling. My dear, you were always with me and
safe, your brother was as good as dead for me though, and now he has
come back to life. Shouldn’t I be happy?

Yehuda said: Nice justice. One can therefore do no
better than run away, squander his inheritance, live a dissolute life
and, when there’s no other choice, return home, beg for
forgiveness and everything is again in order. What kind of story is
that, Rabbi?

Yeshua looked at him in a way that made me shiver.
What was going on between the two of them?

Yehuda continued: The story is ambiguous. On one
hand: the son is worthless, is nevertheless loved like a Benjamin,
very well, maybe the father liked him the way he was, a lover of
adventure, maybe the son did what the father would have liked to do,
and didn’t, and so there was love and understanding. Or did you
tell the story in order to emphasize the previous one: the father and
the shepherd, they are one and the same. The great charitable one.
Also fine. But: who is the lost sheep, who the lost son?

Yeshua was silent and Yehuda went on: This son, is
he not a wretch? That he isn’t ashamed to beg, and worse still:
returning home after the defeat! Was there no other way for him than
crawling home to his father? This story, Rabbi, is the story of a
man’s failure. Doesn’t it mean in essence: stay
comfortably home, stay in the accustomed, no risks, it will fail
anyway if the father doesn’t intervene. He doesn’t change
anything though, he only puts everything in order, in the old, the
habitual way. You contradict yourself, Rabbi. Don’t you,
especially you, always talk about change. New wine belongs in new
skins, you said, and one doesn’t patch a shredded coat. That is
the radical repudiation of the old. And now this story about
repentant return to the old. Which is valid?

You see contradiction where there is none. The
father is the same, certainly. But the son is transformed, and
therefore the father is also transformed. Without departure and
homecoming everything would remain the same, the old. But departure
and homecoming cause a radical change in the whole. The old becomes
the new. What remains is the father’s love.

I see, said Yehuda, and walked away, and as he went
I felt a pain in my heart and didn’t know what the hurt was.

Where did Yehuda go when he disappeared so abruptly?
He never said and Yeshua didn’t ask, he allowed him complete
freedom.

Yehuda came back late that night. I was worried and
stood on the road to look for him. Finally he came, whistling as he
walked, he was unusually cheerful.

What’s that smell on you, Yehuda? Smoke! The
smell of burning!

Where there’s fire, there’s smoke.

You were very close to fire, Yehuda.

Very close. Listen: the people who were driven from
their land burned down three estates. As a warning, do you
understand?

I understand. But you, why were you so close?

Not to put the fire out. Don’t ask more now.

Yehuda, do you want to cast suspicion on us? Doesn’t
the rabbi already have enough enemies?

Mustn’t someone
like him have enemies? Or do you want him to be everyone’s
darling?

After two more days
journey we crossed the border into Galilee and came to the town of
Nain. We wanted to go around the town, but a funeral procession held
us up, weeping and lamenting. A girl was on the bier, or was it a
boy, I don’t know anymore. I also don’t know how it came
about that Yeshua asked the bearers to put down the bier, or rather,
I didn’t know then. So they put the bier down and he lifted the
cloth, then he said: But the child is not dead, she is sleeping.

Not dead? Of course she
is. She died yesterday and we must bury her soon, for in this heat
putrefaction sets in quickly.

I tell you: the child is
not dead! Tell me her name!

They told him, I forget
it. Yeshua called the child by its name and touched its forehead.
Then she opened her eyes and looked around in wonderment. They
bearers ran away terrified, the funeral procession broke up, the
mother screamed and wrung her hands. They all thought what happened
was hallucination or black magic. We did too.

But Yeshua took the
child’s hand and said: You have slept long. What did you dream?

The child smiled at him:
Of you! I saw you in my dream, and now you are really here.

Gradually the people
dared to come closer. But Yeshua left quickly. We followed feeling
numb.

When we were far enough
from the town and sat down in the shade, he said: What’s the
matter? What are you so surprised about?

Rabbi, we aren’t
surprised, we are afraid. Who are you that you waken the dead?

What do you mean? The
child wasn’t dead.

But how did you know
that?

The silver cord was not
yet broken, life had not yet escaped. One can feel that when one has
learned to heed the signs of nature. You can also learn it. One must
only be attentive. Nature teaches us everything, and everything is so
simple.

Nothing was simple,
everything became more difficult.

At first it seemed the
day would be beautiful and peaceful. The homeland lay green and soft
before us, and the sea was still and blue. And the accustomed smell
of fish and reeds. And boats out in the water, and the springing of
silver fish.

It was Yeshua who had the
idea to rent a pair of boats and row across the sea, from the south
the whole way to Kefarnachum. Gradually we forgot the dead and yet
not dead child, and we were merry, Yeshua as well.

No sooner had we reached
land on the northern shore than we heard roaring. It wasn’t
human, but not animal either, and it came from one of the deserted
cave-graves. I remembered immediately: that was our childhood terror.
Don’t go to the cave-graves, the children were told, the wild
man is there, who will grab and eat you, listen, he is rattling his
chains!

Sometimes we children
really heard it. He had broken the chains again, with which he was
bound while in a deep sleep.

The man was sick, an
epileptic, raving mad, a violent maniac. He is possessed, it was
said, and his strength comes from the demon within him.

Rabbi, where are you
going? The man is dangerous.

But Yeshua kept going,
right to the cave from which the roaring came.

Rabbi, he will kill you!

Yeshua motioned us back
with a firm gesture and went on. We trembled from fright.

But it turned out
differently from what we expected. Incomprehensibly different. As
Yeshua stood before the cave, the mad man sprang out. This was no
childhood terror, no boogieman; he was as we imagined Beelzebub, the
highest demon, to be. Yeshua stood still. The madman also stood
still. They stood three paces from each other. Suddenly a scream and
the madman fell to the ground. Yeshua knelt over him, touched him
gently and spoke to him. We didn’t hear what he said. The
madman reared up again and struck out about him with hands and feet.
Then he lay still. Yeshua continued to stroke his matted hair and
speak to him as though to a child to be calmed. After a while he said
to us: Now he sleeps. When he wakes up tomorrow morning he will
remember nothing, he will be healthy.

We still trembled, and in
leaving one or another of us turned to look back.

That evening I dared to
ask the question: Rabbi, who are you that you can do such things?

He said: Do you want to
know? So listen: First of all you may not have a shred of fear.

The way you say that,
Rabbi, is what makes one afraid, why weren’t you afraid?

Why should I have been
afraid? The man was sick. His body and his soul fought each other,
and no one helped him. Everyone was afraid of him, and that made him
strong. When he saw that I was without fear he surrendered to the
stronger one, and the stronger is always he who desires nothing for
himself and fears nothing.

Yes but: he was sick and
you cured him. How do you do that? Does the art of healing lay in
your hands. Tell us your secret!

You talk as though I were
a sorcerer. It is no secret. It is very simple. When does a person
become ill? When his juices are out of balance. Why is the balance
disturbed? Because he forgets that he is a child of the Eternal One,
to whom no harm can be done. Whence comes this forgetting of the
exalted protection? From the lack of love. When a person is unloved,
he lacks protection. Negative forces attack him and he falls ill.
Give him love and trust, and his balance is restored and he is
healthy.

We understand, Rabbi, but
who can love as you do?

As though the teaching
were to be continued and what was said was to be immediately
confirmed, we experienced another healing the next day.

Just before we reached
Kefarnachum, a helmeted rider, a Roman captain, rode up to us, sprang
from his horse, saluted the rabbi in a military manner and said:
Rabbi, my son, my only son, is dying. Come, help him!

I am not a doctor, nor a
magician.

Rabbi, I am a captain and
have officers and soldiers under me. When I say to one of them: Come!
he comes, and when I say: Go! He goes.

I am not a captain and I
have no soldiers.

You have a different
power of command. Rabbi: a word from you and the illness leaves my
son.

Do you believe that, man?

To us he said: If only
Yisrael had such faith!

To the captain he said:
Because you have the strength to believe that I can heal, you also
have the strength to heal your son yourself. Do you believe yourself
capable of such faith?

If you say it is so, then
it is so.

Ride home now. You son is
healthy.

The captain saluted
again, jumped on his horse and rode off.

We were completely
confused. Speechless. I was afraid of what could happen if the boy
died meanwhile.

But Yeshua’s word:
your son IS healthy! Did he really say that? Yes, everyone heard it.
There was no doubt. Not: he WILL BE healthy. He IS healthy.

I thought that the
illness could have been at its high-point and turned around, so to
speak. A crisis, then recovery, very sudden, that happens. Then
Yeshua would be a clairvoyant. That also happens. That he heard the
unspoken, what was only thought, and in time and space saw what lay
distant, that we had often experienced. Why couldn’t it be the
same now?

Again I thought: Who
are you, who in fact are you?

Behind me I heard an
exchange of words: Yehuda and Yochanan.

Yehuda: Well, that’s
something new, a healing at a distance, that is impressive, it’s
convincing, it can bring in hundreds of followers.

And Yochanan: You always
think in numbers! You always have something to count: coins,
distances, people.

And you? You leave the
numbers to me, it’s not worthy of you, but I’m good
enough for it. Someone has to dirty his hands counting money, someone
has to reckon how long the money will last and how far it is from
here to there, someone must keep his feet on the ground so the others
can fly. And then look down from above, right?

The argument would have
continued if a cry hadn’t suddenly come from the direction of
the city, a cry of joy, that was soon clear, and through the city’s
gates a mob rushed out, led by the captain, on foot now and without a
helmet and without attention to military bearing he ran, he tripped,
had to be helped up, and he cried: My son lives! My son is healthy!

Our entrance into the
city of Kefarnachum was embarrassingly splendid. They cheered Yeshua
like a homecoming hero who had just won a great battle. Meanwhile the
news of his healing of the cave dweller arrived: The rabbi spoke to
the demon, to Beelzebub himself, no, there were many demons, and when
the rabbi expelled them they rushed into the swine and drowned
themselves in the sea.

I laughed out loud. The
poor swine. Which swine? Not Jewish ones naturally. We didn’t
eat pork. They were Greek swine from over there, from Decapolis, and
now they are drowned in our Jewish sea. Stupid people, I said, but
who heard me in all the jubilation.

And then to top it off
the news from Nain: The rabbi woke a dead child, it lay already in
the grave, it stank, and when the rabbi cried: Come out! It came out,
jumped around and lived. Go to Nain and see for yourselves!

Rabbi, I said, stop this
nonsense, it’s bad for your reputation.

Yehuda said: Leave them
their belief. The main thing is that they have hope. The lame walk,
the blind see, the dead rise, that’s what they heard, that’s
in the scriptures, it serves them as a sign.

What of, Yehuda, what of?

What of? About whom is it
said?

Be quiet, Yehuda, Yeshua
said angrily. We’re not staying here. Leave without drawing
attention, a few in this direction, a few in that direction. We’ll
meet in Shimon’s house.

He drew his cloak tightly
around him and left.

Yehuda said: He doesn’t
want to be it. If only he wanted it!

He ground his teeth.

Yochanan said: That won’t
do. Then everything is false. The spirit becomes course material that
way. They will never ascend. The realm of peace will always be a
dreamland for them, flooded with milk and honey. What a foolish
people.

Before anyone in the city
noticed, we had disappeared. We stayed hidden for a few days in
friends’ houses by the sea. Finally, though, they discovered us
and called for the rabbi.

Before he showed himself
to them, I said: Rabbi, no more miracles, please! Otherwise
everything will go wrong. The must learn to see you, you, not
miracles, or what to them are miracles. YOU are the miracle, Rabbi!
Don’t descend to them, lift them up to you!

What a mob of peoples
awaited him! They came from everywhere. We heard Aramaic, Hebrew,
Greek, Phoenician, Syrian. Not even the Baptist drew such crowds.

The people camped on the
slopes. There must have been many hundreds. A thousand perhaps, or
more. And stragglers kept coming. What did they expect? What dream
led them there? What desperate hope? Hope? In what? Foolish people, I
had said. In my heart I took it back. Poor people, I said, too long,
too harshly tested people. They had always trusted the Eternal One
and the holy covenant. That they still hoped, that was a miracle. So
much faith, so much hope cannot be frustrated.

The people had sat down
and become still. Yeshua sat also. He sat at the foot of the hill.
His talk was a masterpiece of openness and revelation. It was such
that Yochanan wept from joy and Yehuda enthusiastically rubbed his
hands together and said: At last!

But what did the rabbi
say? Was it so terribly new? Not really. What he had told us in a
small circle during conversations at night, sometimes offhandedly, he
now summarized and made into a whole, and he did it publicly before a
large crowd, which was in no way completely Jewish. He spoke without
barriers. It was what Yochanan understood and was in accord with his
higher worldview, and what Yehuda, possessed by the Jewish plight,
did not hear. What Yehuda heard was the description of a liberated
Yisrael, a foretelling of a radical change in the political
situation.

Who today hungers, will
be sated. Whose property is now stolen, will receive it a
hundredfold. Who is imprisoned will be freed. Who now weeps will
laugh. Who is now persecuted will find peace.

The people applauded.
Yeshua continued: You who are poor and oppressed, you will find
justice. No master will be over you and make you unfree. The debtor’s
prisons will be opened and the debts erased. The master will embrace
the servant and there will be neither master nor servant, neither
rich nor poor. Each will have what he needs, and since all will have
the same, there will no longer be envy, no thievery, robbing, no
murder. The lamb will lay alongside the wolf. Each is brother and
servant of the other. The violent will no longer rule, but the
peacemakers.

The people jumped up,
wept and danced from enthusiasm. In the midst of the giddiness a
strong voice called out: But what happens meanwhile? What happens to
our oppressed? What about the feudal masters, the rich, the priests?
They won’t leave on their own, they must be pushed out! The
nest of vipers must be dealt with.

Some shouted: Down with
them! Down with the rulers!

Soon many were shouting
it. Then Yeshua stood up and raised his hand.

You’re speaking
badly! You’re thinking falsely! You’re thinking of
violence! The evil wheel keeps turning you. You would make new
weapons from ploughshares, daggers from vine-dressing knives. And you
believe that improvements will come from that? Drive away violence
with violence? Make peace with murder? Build the new house on the
field of death? Mix the mortar with blood? That is the renewal you
hope for! And I should help you? Fools!

There was no applause.
But no objections either. A great silence.

And once more Yeshua
raised his voice: Nothing will change unless you change yourselves!
There will be no peace on earth if there is no peace in you. Make
peace with your brothers, peace with those you’ve declared to
be your enemies! The brother-kiss to all!

Yehuda gnashed his teeth,
then he murmured: Peace to the Romans. The brother-kiss to Herod.
Embrace the priests.

He said out loud and very
angrily: I want to love my enemies if there are any left after the
purge, then!

A few laughs, but only
shortly, then silence again. No one knew what else to say.

It had become dark, for
many too late to start the long way home. It became evident that many
had not reckoned with not finding a place to sleep and that the shops
would be closed. They were hungry.

Yehuda said: Rabbi, the
people are hungry!

He said it critically, as
if it were Yeshua’s fault, and he said it challengingly. He
didn’t relent. Whatever the rabbi might say, the task was his.
“The people are hungry,” meant: Give them bread! And that
meant: Finally assume your role.

Rabbi, what shall we do?
We can’t send them home. There are children with them, and they
are hungry.

Yeshua said: How much
provision have we?

Provisions? What
provisions? A basket of flat cakes and another with some dried fish.
Just enough for ourselves.

Bring the baskets and
distribute the food.

Distribute?

Distribute!

So we distributed: small
pieces of cake and small shreds of dried fish. A hopeless task. We
kept distributing and distributing. We saw that those who received
something shared it with others, and many added something from their
own, at first held back provisions, and the sharing continued in that
way, nobody received much, but everyone got something, and at the end
there was still something left in the baskets for us, we didn’t
know how that happened.

Once we had all eaten a
great restfulness enveloped us. The night was warm and full of stars,
and the half-moon gave light. Yeshua slept, like most, on his back
with his arms crossed under his head. I couldn’t sleep. I
looked at him. Without opening his eyes he said: Sleep! You have a
long way ahead of you.

What did he mean by that?
Why didn’t he say: we? But I fell right away into a deep sleep.

We woke up very early.
The people had to go home to work. The hill emptied out. We were also
ready to leave. However, we didn’t get far, not even to
Chorazin. A whole region was in movement. People followed us, people
ran up to us, circled us and pushed against us. And what people they
were: all sick. They hobbled along on crutches, they were carried on
stretchers, and the whole misery gathered around Yeshua. Like dirty
water that foams against a rock. The stink of pus and dried blood, of
sweat, of unwashed clothing, of poverty. I never learned to be
insensitive to smells and ugliness. How could Yeshua stand it? The
sick thronged about him, to touch him. One pushed the other away,
many were thrown to the ground.

It was Yehuda who made
order. He screamed orders. He made the people line up right and left
of the path. Thus Yeshua could walk between them, touch them, speak a
few words to them. Yehuda kept them in check, but he was impatient
and in conflict with himself, I saw that. He stood on the side of the
poor, but what Yeshua did was patchwork for him. A few healings, a
hundred healings, a thousand: what meaning did it have when all
Yisrael was sick and in misery? Don’t heal the sick, don’t
give alms: pull out the roots!

He grumbled, he growled
at the people, but he loved them, because for him they were the
exploited, the victims of thievery, those who were tricked out of
their first-born rights by the clever, the efficient without
scruples, the deal-makers, the friends of the Romans, those who bowed
down before priests and bureaucrats.

Not only the poor came,
for, as Yehuda happily realized, the rich also got sick, but as soon
as they were sick rich, Yehuda stood at their side, for now they were
a minority and this minority suffered and must be supported. But he
couldn’t accept that they be treated as the poor were, that is,
without paying. I saw people give him money. For a long while Yeshua
didn’t notice, but when he did he was furious. I hadn’t
seen him so angry since the temple scene, and never afterwards
either.

Give me the purse,
Yehuda!

Yehuda held it tightly
with both hands.

Yehuda, the purse!

Yehuda pressed it to his
breast. Thereupon Yeshua ripped it away from him and emptied it among
the people. Yehuda screamed in anger, then in triumph: the poor
fought for the money like dogs for bones.

What do you want from me?
To heal your suffering? This is your suffering: wanting to have!

One cried out: Tell that
to the rich! We have nothing.

Do I speak of having? I
speak of wanting to have. You have nothing, but you want to have,
nothing but to have. And if you had, it would never be enough. Rich
or poor: you’re all sick. Your desires are sick, your souls are
sick, and therefore your bodies are sick.

Another called out: Then
heal our souls, Rabbi!

Come here, you, said
Yeshua, take that pitcher there, go to the rubbish pile and fill it
with sand and stones. It’s heavy now, isn’t it? What are
you carrying there, friend? It’s filth!

The people laughed.

Yeshua said: Do you want
it to be lighter? Well then, empty out the pitcher! Does it seem
lighter to you now? And now go to the cistern, wash out the pitcher
and scoop up clear water!

And now: drink! How do
you feel now, friend?

The people understood and
clapped.

But one called out: What
you call filth is none. It’s power and whoever has power is
master.

Of what power do you
speak, friend? Was Herod the Great powerful? Where is his power now?
Leprosy has eaten him up, him and his power. Empty your pitchers,
friends! Throw out your foolish desires, and you are healthy.

Someone said: You may
well speak, your purse is full.

Yeshua said: Haven’t
you eaten today?

I have.

Whoever has not eaten,
raise your hand.

No one.

Who has a pair of old
sandals?

Three or four came
forward. Yeshua gave Yehuda the purse: Give them money for new
sandals!

Yehuda murmured: You
believe anything. They’re professional beggars.

Yeshua went on: Do any of
you not have sleeping quarters for the night?

Again a few came forward.
The purse emptied. When it was empty he showed it to the people and
said: I have only one pair of sandals and one cloak. I have no house
and no land. I have neither a cow nor a donkey. The foxes have caves,
the birds nests. I never know during the day if I will have a roof
over my head. And I lack nothing.

A woman called out: You
say that because you have no children. If your children are hungry
you can’t say: I’m not worried, the crows will bring
bread and quail will fall before my feet.

Yeshua said: You are
right to remind yourself and us all of what happened to our
forefathers in the desert. Bread fell to them from heaven when they
were hungry. But why? Because they trusted the Almighty. Do you see
the sand lilies over there? Who feeds, who dresses them? When our
fathers traveled through the desert they had only one thing in mind:
to find the Promised Land. But when Moshe was too long on the Sinai
in order to speak with the Almighty, they lost patience and trust,
they made the Golden Steer and sacrificed to it and forgot the way
and the goal, and the Almighty decided that they should perish. If
one individual, Moshe, hadn’t been there to placate the
Almighty, you wouldn’t be here, the bones of your fathers would
be strewn in the desert. But they turned over a new leaf, destroyed
the idol, purified their hearts and directed their desire once again
toward the Promised Land. So they reached it, and you are here. To
you also a land is promised: the realm of peace. But like your
fathers you are careless with your salvation. Like them you have made
an idol and sacrificed your lives to it. Don’t you see that
your idol is made of mud and filth? Don’t you see that it has
cracks and leaks? A gust of wind and it will turn to dust. A second
gust and the dust will become a sand-cloud that will bury you.
Destroy the idols before it is too late! Direct your hearts to the
only necessity: the realm of peace and love. Everything else,
friends, will be given to you. If only you would believe me! You live
in the middle of the Promised Land, and you don’t see it. Open
you eyes: the earth is beautiful, and only on thing is needed to make
paradise of this earth: Love! Love one another, friends, give the
kiss of peace, reconcile your differences, then the Almighty will
manifest his love to you. You could be happy, friends, if you only
wanted to be!

The people had listened
in silence. They forgot that they had come to ask to be healed. I
don’t know if it happened to some. Something great had
happened. The people left silently.

When we were alone
Yochanan said: You preached beautifully, Rabbi.

Yehuda said: Beautifully,
yes. Beautiful.

Yeshua said: What do you
have against me, Yehuda?

What I have against you
is that you talk beautifully.

Speak clearly! Let the
poison out!

All right, if you want to
know. Moshe was on the mountain. He left his people alone much too
long. A people without a leader loses its way. Waiting too long
blunts hope. How should the people know that Moshe wasn’t dead,
but would return? That’s overburdening, Rabbi. And furthermore:
that the Almighty didn’t think of that, that he kept Moshe with
him too long! Shouldn’t he have known that the people were
desperate? What kind of dangerous game were they playing? And then
afterwards: Who was to blame for the aberration with the golden calf?
Who then: the people. Not Moshe, not Adonai. The people. Rabbi:
Yisrael’s waiting is taking too long. Who can blame them, if
they give it up?

What do you expect,
Yehuda?

What then: Yisrael’s
savior.

And what does this saving
consist of?

What a question! The
water is up to our necks. Not a foot of our land belongs to us, the
people. Foreign soldiers eat our fields bare and our stalls empty!
And our own rulers, what are they? Thieves, usurers, exploiters,
that’s what they are. And you ask what the saving consists of!

Yehuda: Would you cure
violence with violence?

How else?

You are wrong, Yehuda.
You think that healing comes from outside. But it comes from within.
Don’t go, listen to me. You think that liberation lies in
reversing the situation: those on top should be toppled, those who
are below should rise up. And then, you think, the wheel of time
stands still, and everything is good forever. You are thinking too
shallow, Yehuda. Much too shallow. Destruction happens quickly.
Building up takes time, patience, trust. Does that sound bad in your
ears, impatient one?

Bad, very bad. Patience,
trust: the virtues of sheep, Rabbi! As if every year didn’t
count, every month, every day! Time, this is our time, Rabbi,
Yisrael’s reality is now!

Yehuda, I say to you:
Yisrael’s time isn’t to be counted in years and days.
What can be counted and measured perishes. What remains is the bond
between the Almighty and Yisrael. But Adonai is no Jewish tribal god,
and Yisrael is not Yisrael alone. Yisrael - that is humanity’s
waiting for the realm of peace.

Yehuda said: Who can
understand that? Who can understand you at all, Rabbi?

You, Yehuda, you can, but
you don’t want to. Why do you stay with me anyway?

From obstinacy, Rabbi.

One day, Yehuda, you
obstinacy will be broken. You will lose patience and leave me. Where
will you go though, friend? Yehuda: My death will also be yours.

Could be, said Yehuda and
he walked away. Yeshua watched him for a long time, then he wrapped
his cloak tightly around him.

None of us dared to ask
anything. I was cold despite the heat.

That evening Yeshua said:
We’re not going to Chorazin, but to Nazareth. The anniversary
of Joseph’s death nears. I want to go to his grave.

When I was alone with
Yeshua I said: Must that be? Your family, Rabbi, you know what they
think of you. And anyway: Nazareth. An unfriendly place. Let’s
rather go to the other side of the sea, to Decapolis, maybe to Hippo.
What do you think? A little rest would do you good.

He smiled. You begin
cleverly. Why don’t you say openly that you don’t want to
go to Nazareth? What are you afraid of? Meeting the family that you
call mine, or what else?

You aren’t liked in
Nazareth. You know: No prophet is ever respected in his hometown.

We went anyway.

We noticed the attitude
towards him by the way they greeted us: with sidelong glances, or not
at all, and fleeing into their houses as though we brought leprosy
with us. No one of his family had time for us: they all had something
else to do. We were barely invited to sit. Finally when all the
others had left, his mother brought bread, sheep-cheese and wine and
sat with us. We didn’t know what to talk about.

Now and then Yeshua’s
glance met his mother’s, like a fleeting encounter on a high
bridge, nothing permanent.

Are you going with us to
the grave, I asked her, and she looked at her son questioningly.

As you like, he said.

It pained me that he
wasn’t friendlier to her; of course he wasn’t unfriendly,
only distant, terribly distant.

Come! I said, and then
she went with us. We went last. The question left her lips with
difficulty: Miriam, is it true what they’re saying, that he
brought a dead person to life and cures the sick and drives out
demons? Tell me: Is that all true?

Yes and no, I said. He
has healing power, many have that. As far as the demons are
concerned, it’s about sick people, those who have fits,
lunatics. He can help them. And the dead ones who he revived, they
weren’t really dead yet, and he felt it. Of course the fact
that he felt it, that means a lot.

So basically it’s
all natural.

She sounded relieved, and
at the same time disappointed. And otherwise? What else does he do?
How does he live?

Why are you worried about
him?

How can I not worry. He
shouldn’t make so many enemies. We notice it here already. They
tell us we should bring him home and forbid him to rile up the
people. He’s said to be either a rebel or a lunatic.

Do you think that, too?

I don’t know. He
was always close to me and at the same time distant. He was never my
child.

What are you saying? You
gave birth to him.

That’s true.

And?

I don’t know who he
is.

Strange talk.

Do you know it then,
Miryam?

Yes and no. Sometimes
yes, sometimes no. What I do know is this: It’s not important
what he does, and not even who he is. What’s important is that
he is HERE.

How do you mean that?

Something comes from him,
a good force. Even his appearing has an effect.

What then?

Hard to say. Maybe it’s
this: Suddenly there’s hope, and this: one no longer knows
what’s important and what isn’t. Or perhaps I can say it
better this way: He comes and opens a gate, and light comes from out
the gate.

You love him, Miryam.

Many love him.

I wish he would start a
family and live permanently somewhere.

I had to laugh out loud.
He and a family and permanence! I said: You have borne a lion and now
you want to make him into a lapdog? That won’t happen.

She smiled, though
fleetingly. He is no lion in my dreams, but a lamb, and he is torn
apart by wolves. Miryam, I have prophetic dreams.

Your fears become dreams.
Don’t dream them! What must happen, will happen.

We arrived at the grave.
I wondered what Yeshua was thinking and what the dead one under that
grave-mound really was to him. I came to no conclusion.

When we were leaving the
grave, Yeshua stood for a moment beside his mother, and he put his
arm around her shoulders. A fleeting gesture, very seldom, also
later. She accepted it calmly, with a little smile which cut my
heart. But when we spoke later about having to find quarters for the
night she offered us none. So we separated and went to various
lodgings in the city. They were not friendly to us there.

The next day was Shabbat
and Yeshua went with us to the synagogue, he kept to the rules of the
Law.

As is customary, they
handed the scroll to the guest and showed him where they had already
read and where he was to continue, and Yeshua read. They were the
words of the prophet Yeshayahu.

“The spirit of the
Almighty rests upon me, the Lord has anointed me. It is He who has
sent me to bring a glad message to the poor, to loosen the bonds, to
comfort the mourners and to proclaim a Year of Rejoicing.”

He read no farther. He
returned the scroll. Now it was his turn to interpret the words.

He sat quietly for a
while, and all eyes were upon him. Then he began to speak. What did
he say? He only repeated Yeshayahu’s words:

I am sent to proclaim a
Year of Rejoicing.

Why did that sentence
suddenly sound so different, as though an even older manuscript had
shone through an old one? “I am sent.” That “I”,
what did it mean? The scribes looked nervously at each other. He left
them time to think. Then he said for the third time: I am sent to
proclaim a Year of Rejoicing.

Now they heard that “I”
even more.

And then another pause.

One of the scribes said:
You talk of a Year of Rejoicing. But it is no Year of rejoicing now,
not even twenty years have passed since the last one, the next one
won’t be for another thirty years.

Hear what I say. There
are Years of Rejoicing which you reckon, and Years of Rejoicing which
escape your reckoning.

They shook their heads.

And who determines such a
Year of Rejoicing, when not the Law of Numbers?

Yeshua said: Laws don’t
decide, but the people’s need.

One of the scribes said:
Explain yourself better. Didn’t you say that you are the one
who proclaims the Year of Rejoicing? Must we not understand it so?
But who are you, that you could do that?

Who I am you will know
later. What I am proclaiming is the Year of Grace. A question for
you: what happens during a Year of Rejoicing?

When they didn’t
answer right away, in order not to fall into a trap, he gave the
answer himself:

The Year of Rejoicing is
the year of the freeing of the slaves, forgiveness of debts, the
return of bought or expropriated land, the restoration of justice.

We know that, they cried,
but this is no Year of Rejoicing.

You are right: it is no
Year of Rejoicing, injustice reigns, stolen property is not restored,
expropriated land not returned, debts are not forgiven, the slaves
are not freed, property is not shared. Not a Year of Rejoicing!

Why do you reproach us?
Is it our fault that it’s not a Year of Rejoicing? Is it our
fault that everything is going so badly? Go to Herod, go to Pilate,
go to the High Council! And anyway, why do you appear here as if you
were who knows what, you son of a carpenter? Does it amuse you to
play the prophet? Or even the Messiah?

They yelled such things
in confusion.

Then Yeshua stood up, and
something went out from him that silenced them. He let them wait a
while. They didn’t know what to do, they stepped from one foot
to the other. Suddenly one of them, who was very old and whose voice
trembled, said: Tell us who you are.

Yeshua said: I am he who
fulfills the scripture, and it is fulfilled now.

I was shocked. What did
he mean? What did that “now” mean? This hour, or this
episode of our history, or an eon-long now? And if now is now: what
is fulfilled?

They were furious at what
he said and they cried: He applies Jeshayahu’s words to
himself! We heard right: I, the Lord’s anointed one, I, who
fulfill the scripture. Outrageous words.

One went up to Yeshua and
screamed in his face: Say openly who you claim to be! Say: I, the
Messiah, Say: I, the Son of Man!

They all pushed against
him and threatened him and shoved him out of the synagogue. To the
rock! they cried. Previously blasphemers were thrown from the rock.
When we realized that we threw ourselves between Yeshua and his
persecutors. Yehuda especially screamed and cursed and manhandled
them. Then Yeshua turned around and suddenly it was quiet and we
heard him say in a calm voice: What you wanted to do others will do
at the appointed time. You, though, should thank the Almighty that he
spared you from the guilt of shedding blood.

He wrapped his cloak
tightly around him and walked through them and out of the town. No
one followed us.

We left the town
embittered, and not only against the scribes. Only why had Yeshua
provoked them in the way he did? Was that necessary? What was the
result? How were those provincial teachers expected to understand
him? Nevertheless: that they wanted to kill him, that was
incomprehensible. Furthermore, they had no authority to do so. In the
occupied country only the Romans could give it. And on what did they
base their judgment? On his words? What had they heard to make them
so furious? “I am he who fulfills the scripture.” Did he
claim to be the Messiah? And even if he had: death is not the
penalty. Many wandered around the country and acted like and declared
themselves to be the Messiah, and no one even threw a stone at them.
What had really happened then? The scene was dark, the attack and the
defense. A glance from him and they were defanged. They stood there
like beaten dogs. And he simply walked away. But his words, those
dark words: What you wanted to do others will do at the appointed
time. What did he foresee? What was he conjuring up?

The only satisfied one,
more than satisfied, was Yehuda. Rabbi, you spoke wonderfully. It was
a great speech. The Year of Rejoicing! That’s it. The
abolishment of wage slavery, the return of expropriated land, land
reform, equal distribution of property. Back to the life of our
forefathers, where everything belonged to all before they came to
Canaan and set up Baal over Adonai. Back to a time of justice.
Forward to it! And you, Rabbi, you are the one who will lead us to
it. You are the envoy, the anointed one!

What had come over
Yehuda? His own words frightened him, as though another had spoken
them. But he allowed himself no retreat. What has been said has been
said. The anointed one, the envoy. Whatever his words were, he meant
the revolt; it and only it could bring about a just situation for
Yisrael, the old-new social order, and he meant Yeshua’s
leading role.

Yeshua listened to
Yehuda’s long speech while walking and said nothing, so that
Yehuda was also silent.

So we went silently on
our way and didn’t even ask where to, until Yeshua said: To
Kerfarnachum.

But we never got there.

Bad news held us up:
Herod had succumbed to insanity after he had the Baptist killed. He
no longer slept, wandered around the palace crying: The Baptist isn’t
dead, he has returned from the realm of the dead, kill him or he will
kill me!

And he gave orders to
kill the new Baptist. Everyone knew that his insanity was speaking.
However, who could know if willing hands would not be found.

We must flee, Rabbi!

And we fled. Long
wanderings by night, sleeping by day in hiding. We always found an
empty sheep stall, a cave, a hearth, and always a well, a cistern,
dates and wild berries and herbs, and the flight became a time of
joy. No scribes, no sick people, no demands and the rabbi alone with
us and we discovered what we had forgotten: that we were all young
and could make jokes, even Yehuda. We had never seen him that way,
and would never again. Once we organized a race, and he won. We
forgot that we were fugitives being chased by secret bloodhounds. We
crossed the Syrio-Phoenician border at Tyros on the ocean. We were
inland folks and had never seen the ocean. We jumped in and were like
children and splashed each other and dived under, almost all of us
had grown up near the sea, we swam like fish. We were happy, simply
happy, also Yeshua, and, happily exhausted, we slept on the beach.

But the peace didn’t
last long. As we rested on the beach a woman saw us, and that was no
accident, she had heard, who knows from whom, that the miracle rabbi,
the great doctor, had come, and she appealed to him: My daughter is
possessed, Rabbi, drive out the demon!

Leave the rabbi alone,
Yehuda said, and stop talking about demons, she is sick, find a
doctor.

The woman said: I had
three doctors and none cured her, for it’s no illness, it’s
a demon, drive him out, Rabbi!

She was so stubborn, so
wildly believing, that Yeshua yielded. He said: You’re Greek,
aren’t you? Why don’t you appeal to your priests and your
gods? Am I a Greek? I am a Jew, woman!

She said: Jew or Greek:
you are one who can cure like Asculap, but Asculap is dead.

Yeshua smiled, but he
didn’t offer to help her, on the contrary, he said: To whom
does one give bread: to one’s own children or to the stray
dogs?

The woman was Greek and
had the Greek sense of humor: Yes, she said, to the children of
course, but crumbs fall from the table for the dogs.

Yeshua laughed. The woman
was not diverted. She stood her ground and stared at him.

Yehuda said in Aramaic:
She’ll stand there until she gets him to do what she wants; we
won’t get rid of her; she wants her miracle, and if we know the
rabbi…

No miracles, only no
miracles!

Shimon said: But her
faith, her hope! How can he disappoint her.

Yeshua said nothing, he
looked at the woman and she at him; it was obvious that she wanted to
squeeze the miracle out of him, cost what it may. Drops of sweat
broke out on his forehead. Finally he said: Go home, woman. Your
daughter is healthy.

What was that supposed to
mean? Didn’t he believe in the illness? Or was it like with
that Captain to whom he attributed healing power? Did it mean: Go and
heal the child yourself?

However the woman
understood it, she gave a cry of joy and ran off.

That’s the end of
our peace, I said. Now all the misery of Sidon will be at your heels,
Rabbi! And it will be the same here as there: they demand miracles.

Let them come. They
demand outer signs because their inner eyes are blind. Some among
them will become seeing.

What about the girl,
Rabbi?

She is cured.

Nothing more. She is
cured. Holding her mothers’ hand, she ran to us and laughed.

The mother fell at
Yeshua’s feet: Rabbi, during the time I was with you my
daughter had a powerful attack, but then she suddenly lay still. And
that was the moment when you said: the girl is healthy.

Too late: the city knew
about it already and the army of the sick was on its way; all the
misery descended on us. I was superfluous to that scene and thought:
It’s a beautiful day, Yeshua doesn’t need me, I’ll
go to the ocean.

Miryam! Are you fleeing?

Denial didn’t help
with him, and all my escape routes were blocked.

We stayed a whole week in
Tyros and surroundings. Then we went south along the beach to
Ptolemais. There we received news from home: all was calm. So we
dared to cross the border and make our way home. For a short while we
stayed hidden on the north shore of the Kineret Sea. Shimon and
Andrew had reliable friends there. Yehuda, who wasn’t known
there, acted as scout.

You are in such a good
mood, Yehuda. Seeing you like this, rubbing your hands, makes me
nervous. You don’t have the smell of burning in your beard
again, do you? What have you cut with your dagger? Grass and reeds?

You live in your fancies,
Miryam. My dagger is rusty and my beard fusty, so what do you want?

What’s the cause of
your good mood?

Do I please you more when
I grumble and gnash my teeth and yell dark prophesies?

Frankly, Yes, Yehuda.
Cheerfulness doesn’t fit you.

You’re right, it’s
not my way. I stole it. It belongs to the favorite, the half-Greek,
the philosopher. He only needs to talk nicely. He doesn’t have
to dirty his hands. He doesn’t smell of smoke. He floats above
it all. But one day it will be clear who loves Yisrael more, he or I.

What are you talking
about? Why this anger from out of a blue sky? Did something happen
between Yochanan and you?

Did it? It does and will,
and it is not only between him and me. But what do you know? he
sobbed.

Yehuda, don’t run
away. Sit down. Let’s talk this over reasonably.

Reasonably? I’m the
only reasonable one here. I am the one who sees Yisrael’s
condition, and I am the one who acts. The rest of you also see it,
but all you do is talk and deplore.

You act, Yehuda? How?

Figure it out for
yourself. Do you think I go around gathering news and informing
people and forming groups and finding meeting places for fun? That’s
what I call acting, and that is reasonable, and necessary. How else
will freedom and change come about?

Yes, yes, I’ve
heard him say it. Sounds nice. I’ve had it up to here though.
People change? Push a millstone up a mountain. It’s possible.
Oh sure. It only takes time, and that’s just what we don’t
have. The opposite must be done: we must change the situation and the
people with adapt to it, voluntarily or by force. Don’t you
know our people’s history? Don’t you celebrate Chanukah
with us? What are you celebrating? The memory of the Macbabee’s
resistance. Aren’t you a daughter of Maccabees?

Yehuda, there was a time
when I was willing to fight. But then I threw my dagger away.

And if I bring you a new
one? You don’t want that? No? You give up? You desert me? So
that’s the way it is.

He jumped up and walked
into the night, mute with anger. He didn’t scream. Why then do
I still hear his scream? Is it our fault that he felt himself
betrayed? That he felt that the one he loved so much had given up on
him? That he saw himself as the unloved? And wasn’t he right?
Didn’t we let him fall?

Even beyond his death he
remained the unloved, the lost. Only I saw that glance with which
Yeshua looked at him during the arrest: it was the glance of love,
and it gave him the deathblow.

The rabbi couldn’t
hear our conversation, but on the same night, when Yehuda returned,
late, he called us to him.

Those of you who are
fishermen know that a thrown out net does not only find good fish,
but also all kinds of others. What do you do with them? You throw
them back into the water. Is it not so? Listen: a farmer planted
wheat, it grew nicely but there were many weeds. The harvest was free
of weeds though. How did the weeds get there? Let us pull them out,
said the workers. But the farmer said: Leave both to grow until the
harvest. If you do the weeding now the danger exists that you will
not only pull out the weeds, but the wheat sprouts as well.

What did the rabbi mean
to accomplish with this story?

Philippos, the strict
Baptist disciple, said: Yes, Rabbi, but when a tree bears bad fruit,
one cuts it down. Didn’t you once curse a fig tree because it
bore no fruit in winter?

Continued in the next issue of SCR.

For the whole book free of charge in
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Luise Rinser (1911 - 2002), a schoolteacher who faced execution by the Nazis and lived to write about it, became one of the most celebrated and politically engaged authors in Germany. A best-selling novelist, diarist, short-story writer and political essayist, Ms. Rinser published about 30 books. Her works sold more than five million copies in 24 languages.